Monster in Miniature

Table of Contents

 

 

I wondered if the young girl had faked her alarm, to scam her friends or Maddie and me? Or maybe all of the teens had been in on the joke, just because they were teens.

“What makes you think it’s not makeup you’re seeing?” I asked the girl who was either hyperventilating or a very good actress.

“He’s really dead,” said a boy who’d gone as far as the bottom step to confirm the report. “It’s a dead live man. I mean, a dead dead man.” His face was white as he turned and touched the man’s forehead. “His eyes are, like, staring, and there’s a bullet hole . . . I think it is . . . right here. And there’s a gun in his hand, and there’s, like, a mess.”

The looks on the faces of the teens were enough to convince me, however, that this was no joke, not by the Fergusons, and not by the teenagers.

I saw my quiet Halloween turn into a dead pumpkin.

“A tightly honed mystery.”

 

“Endearing characters and a fast-paced plot that will keep you guessing until the very end. Geraldine Porter and her ten-year-old granddaughter, Maddie, make a wonderful sleuthing team. I can’t wait for the next in the series.”

—Deb Baker, author of the Dolls to Die for Mysteries

 

MURDER IN MINIATURE
MAYHEM IN MINIATURE
MALICE IN MINIATURE
MOURNING IN MINIATURE
MONSTER IN MINIATURE

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

MONSTER IN MINIATURE

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Camille Minichino.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-18641-1

 

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Thanks as always to my dream critique team: mystery authors Jonnie Jacobs, Rita Lakin, and Margaret Lucke.

A special word about my friend and son-in-law, Jim Thomas, owner of JJET Enterprises in Livermore, California. I hope he’ll forgive me for turning his wonderful, honest, and upright family business into a den of bad guys. His generous assistance in creating a fictional factory deserves better, but I am, after all, a crime writer. Thanks, Jim!

Thanks also to the extraordinary Inspector Chris Lux for advice on police procedure. My interpretation of his counsel should not be held against him.

Thanks to my sister, Arlene Polvinen; my cousin, Jean Stokowski; and the many writers and friends who offered critique, information, and inspiration; in particular: Judy Barnett, Sara Bly, Mark Coggins, Margaret Hamilton, Judy Olsen (whose twins are nothing like the Ferguson boys), Ann Parker, Ellen Schnur, Mary Schnur, Sue Stephenson, Karen Streich, and Mark Streich.

My deepest gratitude goes to my husband, Dick Rufer, the best there is. I can’t imagine working without his support. He’s my dedicated Webmaster (
www.dollhousemysteries.com
), layout specialist, and on-call IT department.

Finally, how lucky can I be? I’m working with a special and dedicated editor, Michelle Vega, and marvelous agents, Elaine Koster and Ellen Twaddell.

It took me nearly an hour to do a few simple tasks around
the house: I painted the kitchen and dining room walls a dull gray, laid black shag carpet in the living room and main hallway, and installed torn-up lacey curtains in the bedrooms and the attic. I’d hoped also to rewire the house before lunch, but I needed a break.

I’d always wanted to make a multistory haunted dollhouse for Halloween, and this year the timing was right. My eleven-year-old granddaughter, Maddie, was excited about the project and I was a pushover for whatever enticed her to spend time with me.

Maddie was kind enough to allow me to do the boring parts. “Like, you can glue the shingles onto the roof when I’m not here, Grandma, and I’ll help with all the decorations.”

“You’re a princess,” I said, and despite the conditions, she knew I meant it.

I’d bought this newest dollhouse as a fixer-upper at a miniatures flea market in Sacramento, about two hours from my (life-size) home in Lincoln Point, California. One of my crafter friends, Susan Giles, and I had made the trip together. We’d all gotten used to traveling long distances to find supplies for our hobby since, sadly, so many local dollhouse stores had gone out of business.

With only a little more than a week till Halloween, the lawns and porches of our town were lined with goblins and ghosts, shimmering black cats, and lighted jack-o’-lanterns. One street in particular, Sangamon River Road, had become a tourist attraction of late, drawing visitors from all around the county. The residents held a contest every year for the most creative outdoor Halloween scene. Last year’s winners had converted their one-car garage into a barred, jail-like container for a large green monster that shook his fake cage and bellowed every time someone approached.

“Everybody’s using motion sensors this year, Aunt Gerry,” my homicide detective nephew, Skip Gowen, had mentioned to me casually. “If you’d like something like that for your lawn, I’d be glad to help.”

In other words, the young cop in our family was still trying to drag me into the twenty-first century. Meanwhile, the town’s official century was the nineteenth, its citizens sworn Lincoln-ophiles, its government buildings adorned with wise, inspirational quotes from Honest Abe. We celebrated even the most remote anniversaries connected with our sixteenth president—from his first political speech in 1830, on improving navigation on the Sangamon River, to the day in 1831 when he wrestled his good friend, the rough-and-tumble Jack Armstrong, to a draw.

Miniaturists often recaptured the past, with replicas of Victorian homes being one of the most popular dollhouse styles. The more layers of lace, velvet, and floral patterns, the better. We were admittedly inconsistent: we delighted in furnishing our dollhouse bathrooms with claw-foot tubs and pedestal sinks, but no one in my crafts group would be willing to give up her blow-dryer and real-life Jacuzzi.

Maddie was also angling for a high-tech haunted dollhouse this year. She’d suggested having eerie, screeching sounds come out of the tiny windows and flashing, blood-red lights around the porch.

“I learned how to do that stuff last summer in technology camp, which cost my parents a lot of money,” she’d reminded me.

“That doesn’t mean I have to adopt all your new knowledge,” I’d told her. I accompanied my proclamations with tickling in the right spot, and my granddaughter acquiesced in a burst of giggles.